It’s September, it’s hunting season and a typical Sunday of keeping away from the hedges and the trees.
I wanted a garden, got a meadow instead, and the flowers are wild. Not a garden but home to a voiceless population. A home encircled by men with guns, nature lovers, protectors of the environment, killers. I have become a sentinel.
Who loves nature
does not carry
Upon the hill a fire burns,
And people feast
The summer in.
Upon the hill the old year turns,
The winter beast
Flees from the din.
Upon the hill is where we learn
The olden ways, and not the least,
The path that’s followed by our kin.
Upon the hill is where I yearn,
To watch the sun rise in the east,
And feel its magic on my skin.
So burn, bright fire, magic blood,
Spill and sow for summer’s good,
And raise the grain, the bloom, the bud.